


these mortal ties

by unspoken_code (orphan_account)



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, Game of Thrones (TV), Original Work
Genre: Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Mentions of Pregnancy, Rape/Non-con Elements, Sexual Coercion, Unaroused Victim, basically you've got to sleep with him to keep your job in the castle, like for real this isn't fun and there's not really a plot or anything it just sucks, there are people i know IRL who i would not want to see this, there is really no excuse for this and i will orphan this immediately lol, uhhh what else
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-30
Updated: 2020-06-30
Packaged: 2021-03-03 20:46:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,303
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24991753
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/unspoken_code
Summary: When Theon Greyjoy summons you to his rooms, you feel both a sense of long-coming defeat and an intense dread. You know what he wants. And you know, deep within you, that he’ll get it.---There are so many potential triggers in here that I probably can't tag them all. Just like... please take care of yourself and if this is going to not be a good time for you then please I beg you to not click on this. The tags that I have give a pretty good idea of what's to come, I think, but fair warning, this is not happy or sexy. It's just a bad time.
Relationships: Theon Greyjoy/Original Female Character(s), Theon Greyjoy/Reader
Kudos: 44





	these mortal ties

**Author's Note:**

> No idea why I wrote this!! Please, fun game in the comments-- do I need therapy?? Or is quarantine just making me nuts? Anyways if you're a sicko like me then enjoy.
> 
> Please don't comment anything too mean. I'm fragile, as you can probably tell already. Okay, on with the bullshit.

When Theon Greyjoy summons you to his rooms, you feel both a sense of long-coming defeat and an intense dread. You know what he wants. And you know, deep within you, that he’ll get it. No matter the cost. You are but a mere serving girl, after all, and he is the son of a Lord Paramount. The difference in station alone demands your compliance. 

You knock on his door, as is custom, with a jug of wine and a plate of food balanced on your hip.

“Come in,” he says. When you enter, you find him lounging lazily on the sole cushioned chair in the room. You place the platter and jug on the table and move to exit when he stops you.

“Wait,” he calls. You pause. If you leave anyway, you face his wrath. But if you stay, the consequences could be far more dire. You turn to face him, knowing that you could regret this. He beckons to you.

“Come here,” Lord Greyjoy says. You obey in the loosest sense of the term by moving to the farthest perimeter possible. You think you can see the barest hint of a scowl on his handsome face. It seems to mutilate him. 

“Closer,” he orders. You pause. His gaze turns darker. “Are you stupid? Come here.”

Though you feel nothing but nausea, you approach him until he is satisfied- until you are standing close enough to him that you can feel the heat seeping through his woolen tunic. Your knees are nearly enough touching his. You feel close to vomiting.

“My lord,” you begin. He seems to like this address, though, and grips your thighs to tug you just a little bit closer to him. You can see the bulge in his trousers from here. You feel more ill than before. “Please,” you try.

Lord Greyjoy’s grip only tightens on your legs. “Please what?” he says. His gaze is expectant. It almost seems as if he expects you to beg for his touch. But you are no such woman, and feel no desire for whatever… charms that he may offer. 

“Please don’t,” you murmur. It comes out more huskily than you intend. You are merely flustered, not aroused, yet Lord Greyjoy seems to hear your voice as that of a willing woman. At least, that is what you suppose-- it would be far worse to consider the alternative, that he is all too willing to bed an unwilling woman. 

But that conclusion is far too easy to come to when he roams his hand over your rear. Lord Greyjoy responds, “You are meant to serve me, are you not? What good are you if you cannot serve me in the ways I ask?”

You swallow heavily. It is true that your position in Winterfell is precarious at best. Before Lord Greyjoy took notice of you, you were struggling as a kitchen wench and very nearly on the verge of unemployment. The cook had had enough of your ineptitude and was ready to release you to the mercy of the whorehouses before Lord Greyjoy singled you out as his serving maid. His attentions have been both a relief and a burden. Although you are lucky for any work at all, his gaze always disquiets you when you serve him. Until now, you have persevered for the sake of your family. They need the coin. And it would bring great shame to your parents were you to enter a whorehouse. You must obey, like it or not-- and you most surely do not like it. The idea of laying with the young lord makes you nauseous. But you are nothing if not dutiful, and you know that this might be the only way to feed your family and take care of yourself. 

“I apologize, my lord,” you say carefully. You do not wish to anger him, but you also do not wish to service him in the ways he asks if you can help it. “There are other duties-”

He interrupts you. “Are there?” he asks. “Or are you trying to disobey your superior?”

With that, he rises from his seat and towers over you. Your entire being tenses at the sudden closeness to him. Lord Greyjoy either chooses to ignore this or is completely ignorant at the discomfort he brings. 

“I-- I would never try to- to disobey,” you stutter. You hope you project the panic of a serving girl in too deep rather than that of a woman trying to placate a rich man in the hopes of gaining his favor. He looms over you. Lord Greyjoy’s chest is puffed in a sort of manly defiance. He gives his emotions away far too easily. 

He looks at you, none too amused, until you remember your manners. “My lord,” you add hastily. One of his hands moves from your rear to your hip, while the other squeezes you in warning. He leans closer, but just when you think he might try to kiss you or worse, he chooses to sit back down in his seat. 

\---

“Good,” Theon says. He eyes the girl up and down. Her face is pretty enough, her body better; svelte but soft and full where she ought to be. She is lovelier when she smiles or laughs, but Theon entertains no such fantasies of obtaining those from her, not when she so clearly dislikes him. No, he does not expect a smile from her. Perhaps the girl would prefer that. But it has truly been weeks since Theon’s even touched a woman. Partially due to his pursuit of this girl, in the chase to win her over, but mostly because he’s out of coin at the moment and can’t afford to visit Ros in Wintertown.

The girl shifts nervously. Her hands, calloused and warm, fiddle at her skirts. Her face is flushed. The pink becomes her, Theon thinks. He leans back in his seat.

“Are you hungry?” he asks. He knows the answer. He knows that while Winterfell’s servants are better fed than most, they still tend to be scrappy and hungry for more where they can get it. She hesitates. Smart girl. But in the end, her hunger seems to win out, and she nods. 

“Come here, then.” Theon gestures to his lap. He can see her throat work as she swallows and wonders how it would feel around his cock. Good, probably, though it’s not her throat he’s after. 

“Well?” he prompts, and she perches herself delicately on his knee, trying vainly to maintain her composure. Her breathing now is much more rapid. It makes her breasts heave up and down in her corset in an attractive way. Though his eyes are naturally drawn to her breasts, Theon forces himself to offer her a chunk of bread from his plate, which she eats gingerly, and a sip of wine from his goblet. The girl hesitates at the wine at first-- “I don’t usually drink wine”-- to which Theon responds, “You may wish for it later,” and she takes the cup from his hand and gulps it all down. When she’s finished, she looks almost defiantly at him. Theon brushes a lock of hair behind her ear. 

“Kiss me,” he says. She starts and nearly falls from his knee before he steadies her by the shoulders and draws her closer. This close he can truly appreciate her for the beauty she is. Freckled nose, full lips, long lashes, eyes that shimmer like gemstones in the candlelight. Her gemstone eyes flick down to his lips briefly before she leans in, pausing slightly before pressing her lips into his. 

She’s clearly inexperienced at this. The part of Theon that’s always felt inferior to those around him, to Robb and to Jon, both handsomer and better at swordplay than he, revels in the girl’s hesitation. It’s likely she’s a virgin. The thought makes Theon’s heart pound with anticipation. Being the first, the only… even if this girl is his only dominion. She’ll be his, and that is all that matters. He uses his tongue to infiltrate her mouth. She makes the sweetest little whimper and pulls away abruptly. The girl blinks at him indignantly, but does not get up from his lap. All the better; he’s rather fond of her current position, even if she’s using her slight height advantage to look down at him. Her face is a coil of thinly veiled rage and discomfort. Anger suits her. They lock eyes for a few more seconds before she eases off his lap. 

“Will that be all?” She asks impertinently. Theon narrows his eyes at her. She stares back at him, undaunted. He would admire her nerve if it didn’t suit him so ill. The girl is bound and determined to reject all but the most clear of orders. But if that’s what it takes for her to listen, then Theon supposes he can manage. 

“Take off your dress,” Theon says. He stands and turns away from her to refill his goblet of wine. When he faces her again, he sees her frozen in place. 

“My lord, I really don’t--”

“I would hate to have to ask again,” he says. “Not when I’ve been so patient with you already. Not when I’m the only thing keeping you in food and shelter.” Her eyes widen. Not one to be slow in making decisions, she quickly nods to herself and removes her apron before tugging her overdress above her head. 

The girl hesitates. She’s left in her chemise and corset now. He nods impatiently at her. Theon’s spent far too long looking without touching, seeing her clothed but not naked. It’s driving him a bit mad. His cock is fully erect now. He palms at himself through his trousers, much to the terror on the girl’s face. Her arms go behind her back to undo the laces of her corset.

“I- I can’t.” The girl swallows nervously. “My hands… they’re shaking.” She flits her eyes from his face to the ground. Her movements remind him of that of a bird; delicate, abrupt, flighty. Theon takes her by the shoulders and turns her around. The silence between them is heavier than any stone as he takes his time undoing the laces of her corset. He can almost taste her. He leans down, lips lingering on her neck, and yanks the corset off of her supple body once he’s finished. Theon grasps her hips and pulls her bottom against his cock, grinding into her while alternately sucking and kissing her neck. The girl gasps. He can’t tell if it’s in shock or pain or pleasure, but what does it matter? Soon enough he’ll be inside her anyways. 

“Wait, stop,” she chokes. Theon ignores her pleas in favor of leaning down and pulling up the hem of her chemise. She struggles under his grip but eventually he manages to bare her body to him. He grips her breasts in his hands-- gods, a perfect handful, soft and sweet-- and moans in her ear.

“Lay down on the bed,” he murmurs as gently as he knows how. It’s different with her than with Ros; Ros knows what he wants and more. This girl doesn’t even know what she wants, by the looks of it. She hesitates. He slaps her on the rear lightly which is enough to spur her to action. She’s modest, this servant, trying to cover her breasts and cunt even while crawling onto the bed. Her obedience tastes sweeter now after her initial defiance, he must admit. It is both endearing and enthralling to witness her submission. The girl, still attempting to cover herself, lays on her back and stares dutifully at the ceiling. Theon can see her quiver with anticipation. 

He makes quick work of his shirt and pants before climbing to join her on the bed. Theon props himself up on his elbows to hover above her. She shakes even more now. The influence that his proximity has on her only serves to enhance his excitement. His right hand trails down her abdomen to her cunt, where he rubs her lower lips in search of some kind of response. The girl is tight as sin, but dry as bone.

“That won’t do,” he mutters. He uses two fingers to enter her and stretch her pussy. The girl makes a meek little noise. Theon glances at her face to find her biting her lip harshly with closed eyes. Her jaw is clenched. 

“Relax, love,” Theon whispers into her ear. He licks her earlobe, trails kisses down her neck, and slowly removes his fingers from her cunt. Her inner walls seems to want him to stay, though, because they clench onto his fingers until he pulls them out. The girl cringes. He moves his hand to her right breast to pinch and rub at her nipples. With concerted effort he can feel her muscles relax. “Good girl.”

The feel of her body is too much to withstand. Theon spits on his hand and uses it to lubricate his cock before lining it up with her entrance and thrusting inside. The girl cries out piteously, but it’s almost as if he cannot hear her anymore. 

“Gods, you’re tight,” he gasps. The feeling of her warm cunt overwhelms his senses. It’s better than anything he’s felt before. Ros’ pussy was always slick and ready for him, but nothing can compare to the feeling of this girl’s hot cunt clenching around him. He can’t help but rhythmically plunge in and out, in and out, bolstered by the whimpers and gasps that the girl makes whenever he enters her. “You like that, huh? You like taking your lord’s big cock? Tell me how it makes you feel.”

“So big,” she pants after a pause, face scrunched up in some sort of emotion Theon doesn’t care to unravel. “Too much.” The raspiness of her voice and the filth she speaks send him into a frenzy.

He hitches one of her legs up over his shoulder and slides even deeper in her. The new angle makes him thrust harder and more erratically until he finally reaches his peak. Theon shudders through his climax before slumping over the girl and burying his face in her neck. She smells sweet and heady despite her fear. He relishes in their bodies’ closeness before letting his softening cock slip out of her cunt and rolling over. Theon lays back against his pillows, feeling more satisfied than he has in a long time. 

When he opens his eyes, she’s moved from the bed and begun collecting her clothes. He can see a scant trace of blood on the sheets. So she was a virgin, he thinks proudly.

“Blow out the candles on your way out, love,” he calls. She obeys before leaving in haste, the slightest limp marring her gait.

The next morning, Theon misses the girl’s presence in his arms and absently thinks, as he stretches and rubs his eyes and gets dressed, that he would have liked her to stay longer. At least long enough to take care of his morning wood. But alas, the only remainder of the girl is the tiny spot of blood marking the middle of the sheets. As Theon leaves for the courtyard to practice swordplay, he orders a random servant to send him new linens. 

All day his is plagued by the memories of the night before. When they fight, even Robb notices Theon’s distracted state and uses it to his advantage. The loss does not taste as bitter as it usually would, though, and Theon leaves the yard feeling more energized than before. He is endlessly restless. 

The girl takes up far more of his thoughts than he would care to admit. She was soft and sweet and scared. She was pure before she knew him. Some small part of him feels guilt; her first time with a man was neither gentle nor wanted. But the need to have her again overpowers any conscience he might have had. After all, the deed is already done. There is no harm in partaking in this particular sin once again. 

Theon does not see her until dinner, where she serves wine to the lesser folk at the lower tables. She smiles gaily at something the blacksmith’s apprentice says to her. He’s a handsome boy. Theon mislikes the way he looks at her. He hates even more the way she looks at him. How dare she act as though nothing had happened between them! As if last night was merely a dream that she could soon forget? As if he is less worthy of her smiles than some simple smith. 

Feeling supremely rebuffed and unimportant, Theon rises from the table, makes some pitiful excuse for Robb, and makes his way to outskirts of the tables to greet her. She spots him before he reaches her. Her skirts swish madly around her ankles as she darts out of the hall in an effort to avoid him. Were he a better man, he might have let her leave. But Theon Greyjoy is not a better man. He is not even a good one. He trails her silently down the passageway to the kitchens until he can corner her in a dark corridor.

The girl, so pliant and obedient before, is furious. “Stop following me,” she demands, as if she has any right to demand anything of him. He scoffs. 

“I can do what I please,” he hisses, leaning down to her ear. She stills. He pauses there and threads a lock of her hair in his fingers before continuing. “And you are meant to please me.”

The girl looks him in the eye, all fear gone, and spits in his face. As Theon reels back in shock, she takes the opportunity to hurry away. He wipes his face angrily. 

“I expect to see you in my rooms tonight, or you’ll wake up without a job,” he calls behind her. She stiffens, pauses, but keeps walking as if she did not hear him. He almost admires her defiance. He can’t wait to fuck it out of her.

It’s almost midnight when she comes to his chambers again. He almost thought she wouldn’t. He thought he would have to decide whether or not to make good on his promise. If he did, he wouldn’t see her again, but if he didn’t, she would think him too weak to follow through on his threat. 

But he hears a knock on his door just when he thinks to fall asleep. 

“Come in,” he calls. He lays against the headboard with his hands behind his head. The girl enters silently. It’s almost as if she wishes to be invisible, unnoticed. Too bad that Theon cannot stop noticing her. 

\---

Ever since Theon fucked you the night before you have been planning. One could call it scheming, rather uncharitably, you thought. Or it could just be common sense. 

You know that young lords don’t often experience the taking of a maidenhead from any other woman than their wife. Typically, the young Lord Stark and Lord Greyjoy sneak into Wintertown to visit a brothel to receive their pleasures. And while Lord Greyjoy obnoxiously flaunts his experiences with whores, he rarely tends to lay with women in the castle, perhaps due to fear of censure by Lord Eddard Stark. 

So where does that place you?

After he dismissed you, you went to your cot in the servants’ quarters and thought. Theon showed significant interest in you, more than he himself realized by showing you more favor than other women in the castle. Perhaps you can use this to your advantage. All you have to do is maintain his attentions. He’s the type of arrogant boy who cannot stand to be slighted in any fashion; incite his anger, you figure, and you’ll get a reaction from him. Seeing as he was the first man to fuck you, you think that perhaps jealousy is the best way to keep his eyes on you. 

You make sure to smile and laugh too much at the men in the castle at dinner. It works. You can feel his eyes lingering on you long before he follows you through the hall. And though your hatred is real, and your disgust visceral, his demand for you to come to his rooms is exactly what you want. This is a privilege, you remind yourself as you make your way to his rooms. The bed of a Lord Paramount is a comfortable place to be. No matter how intolerable his affections. 

The tricky thing now, though, is to play the innocent, and stir a feeling deeper than lust within him, so that he won’t leave you at first light. You have to make him care for you, or at the very least want to possess you. Then you can relish in some measure of safety and comfort. It’s not just you at stake. You think of your mother and father, your little sister and little brother. This is for them too.

You swallow uncomfortably as you open the door. You still hurt from his forceful entry the night before. Though you know that you had little to no choice in the matter, you still feel some semblance of guilt for the way things transpired. Perhaps you could have wheedled him away from his bed, if you could only have found the words. Maybe he would have been satisfied with your mouth instead. Maybe it would have been better to run away from the castle, away from Lord Greyjoy and his wandering hands, into the woods where no one could hurt you. Your family would mourn your income and the castle would be down a worker, but you could survive. In your wildest dreams you had fancied traveling to White Harbor and finding work on a boat disguised as a boy, and then traveling to Essos, to be far away from the burdens of home.

But you froze. You obeyed.

And now you are at his door, allowing him to take you again for the mere hope of a better life. The thought of letting him fuck you again is uncomfortable at best. But you have a family to think of, you have yourself to think of, and you know that this is the only way to possibly secure your future. You may have to sacrifice your body and soul, but you have been in the throes of starvation before, and you think that quite possibly anything would be preferable to that. 

You keep your head down in an ostentatious show of subservience, even when he orders you to undress. In preparation for tonight you have already disposed of the more complicated of your clothing. It is a mere few layers that you have to remove yourself before you stand bare before him. It’s cold in here despite the warm water coursing through the walls. Your nipples harden at the brisk air, and you can see his gaze darken as he stares at your breasts. You fight the urge to cover yourself, knowing it will get you nowhere. 

“How may I serve you tonight, my lord?” you ask demurely. You train your eyes solely on the ground to avoid meeting his eyes. You’re afraid of what you might find there.

“Sit on my lap,” he says mildly. You chance a look up, and find his face to be inscrutable. All of your plans, your hopes of winning his heart, are dashed at this look. What if you are severely underestimating him? What if you are simply the pawn in his game, instead of the other way around? What if he turns out to be more unpredictable than you had imagined?

Still, you ignore your misgivings and climb on the bed to straddle his lap. You can feel his already burgeoning erection against your thigh, but choose to ignore that in favor of settling on his thighs. His cock stands proudly between you, begging for attention, but you cannot bring yourself to look. Lord Greyjoy cups your arse cheeks and tugs you ever so slightly towards him, so that his cock rests on your stomach.

“I missed you after you left last night,” he says. “Couldn’t stop thinking of you.”

He pauses, as if waiting for you to speak, but you say nothing and instead trace patterns on his chest with your fingers. Lord Greyjoy is leanly muscled from his hours in the practice yard. 

“Were you a virgin?” he asks casually. 

“Yes,” you reply. You let just a hint of the rage you feel into your voice. He grins and nods, looking away. Smug bastard. Taking what isn’t his to take. 

“And you still came here tonight.”

“You know I have no choice,” you say. “I need the work here. I need the coin.” This anger is all too real, and you have to control yourself before you let it take you over. You think you could very well strangle the smugness out of him. 

“You make it sound like we had no fun together,” he says, mock-pouting. He tugs you closer until you’re pressed against his erection. You scowl, and try to make it seem like a light resentment rather than the burning hatred you truly feel. You don’t want him to know how much it really sickens you to be so intimate with him. He must believe you to be mildly reluctant rather than revolted. “I seem to remember the way you moaned about my big cock last night.”

“Still aches,” you say honestly. This is a truth that will stoke his ego, so you choose to share it. He smiles again, satisfied. It seems he doesn’t mind inflicting pain. That will have to be something you remember. 

“I’ll have to be gentle tonight, then,” he says huskily. When he leans in to kiss you, you turn away out of sheer instinct. This does not deter him. He simply moves to your neck and shoulder, biting and suckling lightly. You gasp and moan at the appropriate times, and he responds in kind. Truly, though, while you tolerate his touch, you feel somewhat tense and repulsed. It takes every sliver of concentration that you have to act out pleasure rather than pain. And it is painful; the whores that Lord Greyjoy usually visits are trained not to complain, and so his touch is rather rough. But you lower your groin to meet his, and feign sighs of pleasure as you rub against him. 

He groans at the sensation, and you know you’ve got him. He takes your breasts in his hands and massages them gently. Lord Greyjoy takes time to suckle each breast, licking tenderly around the marks that he leaves in a show of near worship. You don’t want him, but this is the most delicately you’ve been treated since you were a babe. It softens your heart minutely towards him. In gratitude, you tilt his face towards yours and kiss him as deeply as you are able. 

Lord Greyjoy seems as starved as for true affection as you are. He slips his tongue in, and this time, instead of shying away, you allow him to plunder your mouth. You even shift closer to his cock. His erection is intimidatingly huge, but you lower your hand to grip it anyways. His responding moan tells you that you’re heading in the right direction. Although you still do not know what you are really doing, you run your fingers along his cock with the swipe of lubrication that his precum provides. This seems to arouse him further. 

“Ride me,” he orders hoarsely. You obey, knowing that the act is inevitable. As you lower yourself onto his cock, you grimace at the continuous ache you feel from the night before. It feels like you’re being split in half from the inside. But Lord Greyjoy’s face is one of true ecstasy. It encourages you to fight through the pain and slowly move up and down on his cock. Your cunt soon becomes slick naturally, which greatly eases your rhythmic movements. He urges you to go faster, harder, faster, until your thighs ache with the effort of riding him and he flips you onto your back to continue fucking into you.

It does not take long for Lord Greyjoy to spend inside of you. As he twitches with his release, he buries his face in your breasts, breathing heavily. For that matter, you are panting too. You’re not used to the frantic pace of coupling that he demands. It exhausts you. Though you want nothing more than to rest, you extract yourself from his arms and begin getting dressed. It certainly would not do to overstay your welcome. The bruises from his mouth and hands are already beginning to form along your hips and chest. Your shoulders, especially, will be seeing trauma tomorrow. But you persist, knowing that it is better to leave when still wanted than to stay when unwanted. 

\---

“What are you doing?” 

“I’m getting dressed,” she says. 

“Did I dismiss you?” Theon asks. Though his reactions are somewhat tempered by his recent orgasm, he still feels anger slash through him at the thought of her leaving him now. So soon after he had her. It feels like a slight. He jerks his head towards the other side of the bed. “Come here.”

The girl hesitates, and he can see the deliberation taking place inside her head. Disobey, or submit to further potential indignities? Theon is not quite sure what he would do in her circumstances. After a spell, the girl drops the rest of her clothes near the foot of the bed before sitting on the opposite side of the bed. She’d only managed to get her chemise on before he woke up. It slips over her shoulder, leaving her bare. Theon takes the moment to crawl next to her and kiss her gently on the junction between her neck and shoulder. Her hair, braided before but mussed into wildness now, smells of sweat and lavender oil. It’s intoxicating. He entertains a brief but prevailing wish to feel her warmth every night as he sleeps. For now, he’ll let her stay the night, but in the morning, he knows he must forget her. 

“Come here,” Theon murmurs. This time, the girl obeys without pause, and leans into his embrace as they fall back against the pillows. His left arm hooks around her and his leg hitches around hers, holding her to him tightly. Though she is initially tense, she soon relaxes into his hold. She fits perfectly into his body, like they were made for each other. Warm and sated, Theon cannot help but sink into a restful slumber. 

—-

When you wake up, you feel first the ache between your legs. The next thing you notice is the overly warm embrace of Theon Greyjoy, who holds you as close to him as he did when he fucked you. The third thing that you notice is the late morning light streaming through the glass window. Judging by the light, you are definitely late for your regular duties, but since you mostly answer to Lord Greyjoy, your tardiness doesn’t panic you. Instead, you try to fall back asleep before Theon notices that you are awake. As a servant, lazy mornings are not something in which you are typically able to indulge. You try to forget last night in your quest of more sleep, but a firm, hard reminder of the night before rests against your lower back. In his sleep Theon tightens his grip and murmurs something unintelligible against your hair. He absently moves his hard cock against your backside. You stiffen.

It seems, as Theon grinds his morning erection into your bottom, that you will suffer further.

You hold completely still and feign the long, deep breaths of sleep in the hopes that he will stop. Unfortunately, he uses the opportunity to lift your thigh up and wedge himself between your legs. He slowly enters you, using his come from the night before to lubricate his cock. You grimace in pain as the ache in your cunt is exacerbated by his slow lazy thrusts. This time, he takes it slow, and his morning haze makes him last much longer than he did last night. His left hand massages your breast absently. You’ve never felt more used than now. At least last night he knew what he was doing to you. Right now you just feel like an object. 

Lord Greyjoy groans and spends inside of you before releasing you from his grasp. Abruptly you worry about pregnancy. It has never been your intention to carry a bastard child. It would be disastrous for you and the babe, no matter who the father. This thought is the one that stirs you into action. You need moon tea, now. No matter Lord Greyjoy’s wrath at you leaving without his dismissal. 

You pry his hands off of you and sit up on the edge of the bed. Your entire body aches. But you push the discomfort aside to pick up your clothes from the foot of the bed and dress yourself. Theon watches you drowsily from the bed. 

“Going so soon?” he quips with an insufferable smirk on his face. You turn to face him, now fully dressed, and nod.

“I have work to do,” you say, and then pause. How much does he really need to know? Does he need to know how much you dislike the idea of carrying his child? Or the lengths you would go to in order to prevent that from happening? You want to seem compliant, but not stupid. In the end, you decide to be honest, as is your tendency. “I need moon tea,” you admit.

“What?” he jeers. “You dread the thought of creating a Snow? Or a little Pyke?”

You cringe at the thought but try not to let it show. You deliberate carefully before choosing your words. “I need the work,” you say. “I can’t afford to take care of a child. I can hardly feed my family as it is. Besides,” you continue for his benefit, “I wouldn’t wish to burden a lord such as yourself with a bastard.” 

If you recall the traditions of the Iron Islands well enough, you know that men of his status often take mistresses known as salt wives. You also know that some of the bastards born to salt wives become lord when no other heirs are born to a lord’s rock wife. It’s a gamble to presume that Lord Greyjoy is thinking about his heirs this early in life, but there is little harm done if you misstep. After all, most lords would prefer not to have to support bastards for the rest of their lives.

Surprisingly, this makes Lord Greyjoy purse his lips and frown. 

“If you were with child, you wouldn’t have to work,” he says indignantly. His annoyance at the idea surprises you. Perhaps he cares for you more than he thinks. “I’d see to the comfort of you and the babe.”

You have to fight not to roll your eyes, but a doubtful scoff escapes you and betrays your skepticism. Lord Greyjoy rises abruptly out of bed. He seems angry, and though completely nude, he moves until he stands face-to-face with you. Heat rolls off his body and infects you with dread. You close your eyes. It’s part due to fear and part to annoyance. You just don’t want him to know which. He grips your chin and forces you to look at him. His face is eerily calm. This worries you more than his anger would.

“You think I wouldn’t? What sort of man do you take me to be?”

Without thinking, you look him in the eye and say, “The kind of man who forces a young girl into his bed, perhaps.”

His nostrils flare in anger and he shoves you into the wall and grips you by the throat. You can breathe, but just barely. His hands are sure to leave a bruise. 

“I didn’t force you,” he snarls. ”You seemed happy enough to take my cock last night.”

“What else was I supposed to do?” you spit. He has the decency to look taken aback. “I need the work. I can’t afford to leave Winterfell.” With that, he loosens his grasp on your throat enough for you to tear yourself free of him. 

Fuck this, you think to yourself disgustedly. The audacity of the man to claim you wanted his prick when you could hardly tolerate it. 

“Is there anything else you need, my lord?” you say tauntingly. To your surprise, he shakes his head and dismisses you with a wave of his hand. You leave, making your way to the outskirts of the castle so you can be alone, and vomit until there’s nothing left inside of you.

You look into the woods, dark and lovely. It beckons you. Despite the chill you feel down to your bones, you briefly contemplate running far, far away, where you can live without Lord Greyjoy or your family’s situation looming over you. Find a place to sleep under the stars where it’s so hot you don’t need another person to keep you warm at night. A place where you worry for nothing and want only for yourself. The woods tell you that you can find this place in there, if only you let them swallow you whole, and forget about your mortal ties. 

You can’t forget, though. You trudge forlornly back to the castle, hoping you still have work, and hoping, above all hopes, that last night is the last night you have to spend in Theon Greyjoy’s bed.


End file.
